


Heaven

by vetiverite



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Guardian Angels, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Strong Opinions About the Best Kind of Yule Tree, Twin Souls, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: When Kili's perfect day spirals out of control, he's given a glimpse into its inner workings by his twin soul, Fili.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: GatheringFiKi - 12 Days Of Christmas 2020





	Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for Gathering FiKi's 12 Days 2020 Challenge based on the following photoset:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Written while listening to the songs “Heaven” and “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)” by the Talking Heads. Hirokazu Kore-eda’s film _After Life_ also tugged my sleeve.  
> Please note that not all italics are dialogue, but all dialogue is in italics. 

1.

Could a day be any more ideal? Unimaginable, so far as Kíli’s concerned.

It starts with light snow outside his apartment window— one flake at a time tranquilly spiraling down through the still December air. It’s gentle snow. _Pretty_ snow. His favorite kind. 

For breakfast, he makes himself a bullseye. Cut a hole in the center of a slice of bread, fry it on both sides in butter, crack an egg in the hole to cook sunny-side-up. Kíli’s loved this breakfast since… oh, all his life, he supposes. Forever.

Off to the Christmas market to choose a tree. He finds the _exact_ one: balsam fir, five feet tall, perfect for the end of their bed— his and Fíli’s. They’ve collected so many ornaments over the years, dozens and dozens in all shapes and sizes and colors. Once they’ve all been hung, you won’t even be able to see there’s a tree underneath! 

The snow comes and goes throughout the afternoon. Kíli curls up on the bed with a trashy novel, pausing every so often to breathe in the sweet-smoky fragrance of balsam fir needles. He’s set an alarm for four-thirty in case he nods off; he wants to leave plenty of time to get ready for tonight’s party. It’s happening at a friend’s uptown apartment, a place he and Fíli have visited many times before. Since they’re arriving separately, they’ve already agreed on a ‘home base’ – a certain lamp in a corner of their friend’s living room. Before leaving for work that morning, Fíli joked that he hoped their friend hasn’t decided to redecorate.

At the appropriate hour, Kili dons his best black jeans and a merino sweater, powder blue and soft as air. He also applies one dab of vetiver to the base of his throat. They both love that scent, he and Fíli; they joke that it makes it easy to identify him in a crowd. Tonight they’ll need it: as expected, the party turns out to be packed tight with revelers.

Kíli gets a glass of red from the bar and begins to roam, distributing holiday greetings to everyone he knows, which is damn near everybody present. He’s in no hurry; nor is he worried about finding his mate. Whenever they’re in the same place, they always home in on one another without error. Paths magically open up between them; it always feels logical and right that this should happen.

Sure enough, the crowd clears, and there’s his golden-haired, ocean-eyed other half, already beckoning. Happiness sets Kíli alight. He hurries over and catches Fíli’s hands in his own. 

_I got our tree,_ he says. _It’s just what we wanted. We could duck out a little early and decorate it tonight, if you’d like._

 _I’d like that very much,_ his beloved smiles.

Back at their apartment, there’s more wine and peals of laughter as they take turns choosing ornaments to hang. None of them match, but each is precious for completely unique reasons, mementos representing a life lived together. Once it’s fully festooned, their tree is a memoir, a scrapbook, a history of love.

Afterwards they sink down onto their white comforter as if it were a cloud. Kíli pretends to make a snow angel in it, and Fíli chuckles, leaning over him until their lips touch.

They make love by tree- and candle-light and oh, it’s ecstasy. They know each other by heart. Everything else falls away until at last only the two of them and their love remains. When they come, they come together—not as each other’s half, but as one whole, sharing the pleasure as they share everything. 

Afterward they lie sated, tenderly entwined. As they slide into dreamless sleep on their cloud, a hush falls over the whole world.

2\. 

Could a day be any more ideal? Unimaginable— though to know for sure, you’d need something to compare it to, wouldn’t you? Kíli tries to recall another day as perfect as this one, but he comes up blank. Proof that none ever existed, yeah?

It starts with light snow spiraling down one flake at a time past the window. The air is utterly still— isn’t that something? This time of year usually brings frigid gales barreling like freight trains down canyons of stone and steel. But today the snow falls quietly, untroubled by any wind. It’s gentle snow. _Pretty_ snow. Kíli’s favorite kind.

For breakfast, he makes himself a bullseye. He’s loved this breakfast since… oh, since forever. All his life. He seems to recall it being served to him on a special plate. Deep blue, with little red birds flying in an endless chain around the rim. _His_ plate, lost years ago. Or was it broken? He hopes not. It was his favorite.

At the Christmas market, he scores a pretty good tree. A blue spruce instead of a balsam fir, but you can’t have everything, right? The foliage smells invigorating, like fresh cold air. It’s different than what he and Fíli usually prefer, but it’s good. Change builds resilience, people say. Have to stay nimble.

Though it proves to be a mite bigger indoors than it seemed down on the street, the tree looks very inviting at the foot of their bed. It will look even more so once it’s decorated. Kíli and Fíli have collected a lot of ornaments over the years—all shapes and sizes, all gold and white. Kíli hopes that color combination will look all right against the silver-blue foliage. Whatever the answer, they’ll have to wear gloves to trim their tree. Those spruce needles are sharper than they look.

It’s time to get ready for the party, which is being hosted by some friends in their brand new apartment. Fíli and Kíli have arranged to meet there. Kíli’s admittedly a little anxious about it, but that’s to be expected when you’re going someplace you’ve never been before.

 _It will be fine,_ he tells himself. _I have the invitation. And I know this city like the back of my hand._

He dresses in his best black jeans and powder-blue sweater. One dab of vetiver, because his man adores that scent on him. He himself prefers amber, but he aims to please, so vetiver it is. Maybe it will make it easier to find him in the crowd. These holiday parties are always a mob scene…

Sure enough, the place is so packed, a soul can barely move. Kíli grabs a glass of red at the bar and tries in vain to determine where their hostess is. He runs into a few friends, thank god, but he’s definitely outnumbered by strangers— and he still hasn’t found Fíli.

Kíli’s not worried. No, not really. Well… not much. Whenever they’re in the same place, they find each other eventually, don’t they? Sometimes it’s as if a path opens up between them…. Surely it’s an illusion, but it always gives Kili a feeling he can’t explain. Overpowering relief, as if he’s reached secure ground.

When at last he sees his golden-haired, ocean-eyed other half, he feels so thankful he could cry. He hurries over and blurts, _It’s too crowded here._ _I want to be alone with you._ _Let’s go home._

_Yes, let’s,_ Fíli replies, smiling but puzzled. After all, he only just got here...

Back in their apartment, there’s more wine and plenty of laughter as they figure out how to hang ornaments on a spruce tree without the needles jabbing them under the fingernails. The result is lovely, if a little… well, _humdrum,_ if you want to know the truth. Next year, Kíli will advocate for one contrasting color to break up the monotony. Wine red. Powder blue.

They lie down on their snow-white comforter facing one another. They’re too tired and distracted to make love, but it’s enough just to look into each other’s eyes by the flickering light of the bedside candle.

 _Can I hold you?_ Kíli whispers.

_Of course you can, baby._

Grateful Kíli spoons his mate a little more closely than usual. The noise of the party, the moment when he looked around at the sea of people and thought that he might not magically find his other half after all—all of this falls away until at last only quiet remains. It takes a little while to fully relax, but Kíli tells himself, _It’s just us two on our cloud, safe and sound_. 

And then sleep comes, and peace, and hardly any dreams.

3\. 

Could a day be any _less_ ideal? 

Lost in thought, Kíli sullenly watches snow whip past the apartment window. It’s only just started, but they’re talking two to three inches by eight o’clock. The streets will be a mess—slush in daylight, ice by nightfall. Fantastic.

He’s supposed to get the tree today. It’s an errand he wishes he could skip, but the sooner he gets it done, the less he’ll have to be anxious about. The impending party fulfills _that_ role nicely, thank you. 

First of all, he and Fíli are meeting there rather than going together. The host is a colleague of Fíli’s whom Kíli has never met, so he’ll be a stranger walking in cold. Not the best start to a night of merrymaking, in his opinion. Secondly, it’s a place he’s never been before. Not just the apartment, but the street itself, whose name he flat-out doesn’t recognize. A new street in a city this old, a city he knows like the back of his hand? Pretty odd, if you ask Kili.

A snowflake strikes the windowpane with an audible _plink!_ He studies it closely. They say each snowflake is unique, unlike any other that’s ever been or will be. Kíli’s not so sure. Certainly there must be duplicates—wouldn’t there be, over time? He’s not sure which thought is more unsettling, that no snowflake has a twin, or that thousands and thousands are exactly the same down to the minutest degree…

Determined to make his morning subtly different from others, Kili cooks himself two bullseyes for breakfast instead of the usual one. He fumbles the second bullseye during transfer the pan, but even that counts as an adventure. The orange-yellow of the broken yolk contrasts cheerfully with the deep blue of his favorite plate. Funny— he thought he’d lost it a long time ago, but there it sat on the cupboard shelf this morning, like magic.

He drags his fingertip through the last drop of yolk, pops it in his mouth and immediately thinks, _Needs salt_.

As expected, the tree market is a mob scene. There’s nothing left but Norway spruces, the worst needle-droppers. Kíli stakes his claim on the best one he can find, but as soon as he gets it upstairs – no mean feat, performed without help! – he realizes his mistake. It’s much bigger than will comfortably fit in the bedroom, where they normally have it. And its boughs droop; why didn’t he notice that down on the street?

 _It needs time to acclimate to the indoors, that’s all,_ he thinks. _By tonight it will perk up—and it’ll look even better once it’s decorated._

Sure it will.

Kíli and Fíli keep their decorations in a storage bin in the coat closet. There are only three kinds of tree ornaments, chosen according to some stupid pact they made years ago to “live small”. Three dozen gold satin balls, all identical. Six ropes of pearl bead garland, all identical. Four strings of white lights, all identical. Simple. Elegant. Boring as hell. 

What Kíli wouldn’t give for a tree hung with scads of completely mismatched baubles, each with its own story? He’d be able to randomly point one out and say, _We got this the day we visited so-and-so in wherever-it-was and that THING happened, remember?_

Inspired, he goes to study the framed photos that line the central hallway. Look at _this_ one, for instance! Himself and Fíli, sharing an umbrella on Tulane Street in rainy Princeton. You can tell by the awkwardness of their body language that they’ve only just started dating. Or take _this_ one: Salt Cay, three years ago. Their villa came with its very own banana tree complete with a single, ginormous phallic flower. They’d posed on either side of it, pointing and leering suggestively before dissolving into laughter. It was _brilliant_. Why not an ornament immortalizing _that?_

(Or a banana tree that lives year-round instead of a fir or spruce lasting barely a month?)

Kíli takes a shower but passes on washing his hair. They say it’s not healthy to go out in the cold with a wet head, and who knows how long he might be walking? He pulls on his best black jeans and blue sweater and applies one dab of amber oil to the base of his throat. Amber is his favorite. Not his lover’s, but that’s all right, isn’t it? They’re separate people. They don’t have to share every preference.

Before grabbing his keys and coat, Kíli downs a quick swig of wine to steady himself. So what if they were saving it to mull one of these evenings? Wine’s easy to come by; he can always pick up another bottle on the way home.

After a long pensive subway ride and a fair bit of roaming, he finally reaches the right address. He knows this must be the place from the sounds of music and merriment spilling out through the open, brightly lit windows. He takes out his phone and texts his partner _(u here? im on street come down n find me)_ and then waits. And waits. And waits.

After five minutes more, he tells himself, _Hell with it, I’m going in_.

As expected, the place is a veritable sardine tin— too many people in too small a space, mixed with too much booze and too few places to sit. Is Kíli worried? Yes. He completes a circle of the room, then another, then another, glancing all around. He doesn’t know any of these people, and Fíli’s nowhere to be seen.

 _You look like you’re in search of something._ This from a man – tall, black crewneck, silver hair at odds with his apparent youth – who has insinuated himself into Kíli’s path.

 _I’m so sorry; I’m looking for my partner and can’t seem to find him. He’s a friend of… excuse me_ … Kíli pats down his pockets until he locates the crumpled invitation. _Dennis. Are you—?_

_Dennis; yes, I am. What’s your partner’s name?_

_Fíli._

_Oh, FÍLI! Which makes you Kíli, yes? So glad to meet you._ Dennis offers Kíli a continental cheek-kiss of welcome. _Unfortunately, your other half seems to be running late. You didn’t hear from him at all?_

_No. You?_

_Sadly, no. But the bar’s here, the food’s there—_ mi casa es su casa _. We’ll catch up later, yes?_

Kíli finds himself perched on an ottoman with a paper plate of canapes on his knee, listening to a slender young woman in a candy-stripe dress regale him with how and when and where she first met Fíli. _Oh, he’s a doll,_ she says. _I’d steal him from you in a hot minute, if I got a head start._

Over the course of the next two hours, he texts Fíli several more times and keeps surreptitiously checking his phone for replies, growing more and more gloomy with each lack of response. After a certain point, it becomes clear that there will be no meeting to stick around for.

 _Oh, you poor kid,_ Dennis says. _But it was so nice of you to come. You’ll let me get you an Uber at least, won’t you?_

Kíli asks the driver to let him out a few blocks away from their building. If there’s going to be a quarrel, he wants to walk into it with a reasonably clear head. But the apartment is empty; it echoes his words – _I’m home_ – right back to him. He slings his coat over the back of the living room couch and stares for a long, long moment at the bare-boughed tree in the corner. 

It’s past midnight when a key rattles in the front door deadbolt. Kíli’s in bed, wakeful and stiff with fury. Every sound, however familiar – the _tchk!_ of each door latch, the metallic tinkle of keys placed in their usual bowl – only stokes his ire. 

When the bedroom door creaks open, he snarls like a guard dog in the dark: _Where the fuck have you been?_

 _You’re still awake_. Fíli’s voice, soft and penitent.

_You bet your ass I am. Don’t you dare turn on the light; I don’t even want to look at you._

_I’m sorry_. _I wanted to call you, but I left my phone here._

_Bullshit._

_Baby, I really need to turn on the light._

Kili shields his eyes, as much from Fíli as from the lightbulb glare. He wants to hold on to his righteous anger, and that will be impossible if he looks. But he can’t help it. It’s no use hating the sight of the one you love, particularly when he’s so obviously the worse for wear—flattened here, creased there, nose and earlobes red from the cold.

Hugging himself half from chill and half for self-defense, Fíli gazes wearily around and then points. _See?_

There’s his phone, lying on the windowsill. And here’s Kíli’s cue to stop being sore. But after everything that’s happened, he’s not ready to collapse with relief into anybody’s arms just yet. 

_You had other ways of getting touch,_ he tells the ceiling, tight-lipped. _Instead you left me to face a bunch of strangers all by myself. I didn’t know any of them, and none of them knew me. If I hadn’t brought the invitation, Dennis would’ve assumed I was a party crasher and given me the bum’s rush._

 _Kíli, I’m sorry. I really am. It’s been a shit day, and I promise I will tell you everything in the morning. But right now…_ The edge of the bed dips under Fíli’s weight, his hand touches Kíli’s ankle. _I’m so tired. Can I lie down next to you?_

Kíli cautiously moves over. It feels strange to be on this half of the bed, because it’s always been Fíli’s. Of course he’s still angry, and probably will wake up that way. But when you give the one who angers you the warm side of the bed, it’s a sure sign that forgiveness is coming.

Even so, for the first time Kíli can remember, they fall asleep out of each other’s arms.

4\. 

Could a day be any more ideal? 

Kíli wouldn’t know. He can’t remember any other day but this one. 

Isn’t that strange? He’s felt his own forehead ten times, but that he can tell, there’s no sign of fever. And yet when he tries to think of another day, even _yesterday_ , he comes up blank. 

He woke up knowing _some_ things. Today he’s supposed to go get the tree. The absence of a tree in the apartment proves that this task has yet to be done. And then there’s the party—the separate proof of which is embodied in the cardstock invitation lying on the kitchen table. The date of the event matches the date on Kíli’s smartphone, which is supposed to be very accurate. 

If he could, he’d skip both. But he _has_ to get the tree. And he _has_ to go to the party, for his love will be there.

Where is his love _now?_

Again, Kíli is not sure.

It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? They _live_ together; he should _know_ these things. Maybe there was a conversation about an early morning commute or a work trip, but Kíli simply doesn’t recall it. He feels disoriented, ill-at-ease. He’s never quite right when his partner’s gone. It’s rather… what’s the word?... _codependent_ of him.But it’s the truth. Left too long on his own, he feels like he’s dissolving ever so slightly around the edges.

Outside, it’s snowing like there’s no tomorrow. It only started an hour ago, but the news is filled with talk about falling barometers and increasing accumulation rates– two inches per hour, they say, after midnight. Not enough to warrant canceling the party, god knows. City life stops for nothing, not even a full-tilt blizzard.

Breakfast was a bullseye. Well. It would have been a bullseye, had Kíli not lost his focus. He had all the proper ingredients lined up on the kitchen island, and then he opened the cupboard to fetch a plate. The one his hand fell on was deep blue with cardinal birds around the rim. He took it down, set it on the island, and just… looked at it.

When he next raised his eyes, the wall clock told him that forty-five minutes had passed.

They say familiar objects are reassuring to those in distress. Kíli has spent the morning pacing up and down the apartment hallway, studying each and every framed photograph of himself and his love. All their shared life together is found in these frames. All the best days. 

He can’t remember a single goddamned one of them. 

Have you ever stood in the middle of a room, twirling in a circle as if the thing you seek will magically appear on the next rotation? That’s Kíli now, and with each rotation, his anxiety grows. Something’s wrong. He’s scared. He wants his mate. Why isn’t he here? Again, there’s got to be a reasonable explanation. But fright chokes Kíli’s logic off at the root; in its place, a thought – nasty and intrusive and utterly illogical – weasels in. He finds himself stumbling through the apartment, making a circuit of each room, looking for his partner’s most cherished personal belongings. They’re all right where they belong, next to his.

 _Stop. Stop,_ he whispers.

Fuck the tree market, then. He’ll only go to the party. He sets an alarm and lies down on the bed and tries to think of something – a poem, a song, a mantra – to calm himself.

Nothing. He’s got nothing.

The alarm goes off after what seems like only ten minutes.

Kíli drags himself into the shower. That is to say, he drags himself into _the room that has the shower in it_. He turns it on, but the white-noise hiss of the water unlocks tears before he can even step into the stall. He makes do at the sink with a washcloth, chanting at himself to be quiet. You cry too hard or too loud, the neighbors will call the cops.

He pulls on clean black jeans and a blue sweater and applies one dab of amber oil to the base of his throat. Amber is his favorite. Not his lover’s, though. They share many preferences, but not all. That’s good, isn’t it? They’re different people. Two snowflakes, unalike, drifting in the wind… 

That last thought stirs up a vague sadness that Kíli finds difficult to shake. Before grabbing his keys and coat, he downs a quick swig of wine, then a second, to dull the panic in his chest.

After a long pensive subway ride, several wrong street-corner turns, and some dodgy directions from an inebriated passerby, he finally reaches the right address. He knows this must be the place from the bottled-up sounds of music and laughter emanating from the building. It occurs to him to take out his phone and text his partner _(u here? im on street, come down n find me)_ but… the strangest thing. The strangest, strangest thing.

His phone’s contact list is empty. Not a single name. Not a single number.

Unnerved, Kíli reboots the device and shoves it back in his pocket. The data will have to sort itself out; his boyfriend may be already waiting for him. He’s got to get upstairs.

But it’s a mistake; the place is packed with strangers. He wanders through them in a daze. A number of them stare at him with open curiosity; he doesn’t know how terrified he looks. One man – tall, silver-haired, wearing a black crewneck – detaches himself from a small group and blocks Kíli’s path. Nothing about his stance or voice contains a particle of welcome. _Is there something I can help you with?_

_I’m so sorry; I’m looking for my partner and can’t seem to find him. He’s a friend of… excuse me_ … Kíli pats down his pockets until he locates the crumpled invitation. _Dennis— are you Dennis?_

Clipped and tight: _I am. You say your partner’s a friend of mine? What’s his name?_

_It’s, um… it’s… his name…_

Kíli stops in horror. 

He can’t remember. 

Dennis is watching him with a very slight but very telling elevation of one eyebrow.

 _My boyfriend…_ Dizzy, Kíli reaches for the doorframe to steady himself. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Evidently Dennis wonders the same thing. His face softens, just a little. _Are you all right?_ he asks.

 _I am so sorry, I don’t, I— don’t feel well,_ Kíli gasps. _I’m going to go._

 _Wait, ah… why don’t you sit down for a little bit._ Dennis takes him by the elbow. _I’ll bring you some water._

_I’m— I’m not drunk—_

_I didn’t say you were. You could be dehydrated. Or hungry— do you have blood sugar issues?_ Dennis gently begins to steer Kíli deeper into the apartment. _Let’s make you up a plate. Maybe by the time you’re finished, your boyfriend will come waltzing in, all apologies, and then you and I will make him suffer._

So Kíli lets himself be led to a side chair out of the swirl of merrymakers. Presently a slender young woman in a candy-stripe dress brings him a plate laden with canapes, each skewered with a festive twizzle-top toothpick. 

_Special delivery from Dennis,_ she shouts over the cacophony. _He asked me to find out what your boyfriend looks like so we can keep an eye out._

This Kíli can manage. _He’s shorter than me, has wavy blond hair, blue eyes, deep dimples, a mole on his left cheek…_

_I haven’t seen anyone like that tonight, but if I do, I promise I’ll send him over to you._

But he never arrives. Nor does his name or number – or any other, for that matter – reappear in Kíli’s phone.

Dennis offers to call him an Uber. _For all you’ve been through tonight,_ he says. But Kíli declines. He doesn’t want to have to talk to any strangers. The idea twists him up inside with dread.

The journey home is so convoluted, so torturously twisting, Kíli fears that it will never end. He struggles to make out street signs through the dizzying snowfall and stays on his train so far past his stop that he ends up traveling the entire circuit—all the way to the end of the line and back. The whole time, his mind is racing down an equally perilous track: _I’m losing my mind. Maybe I have a brain tumor. Or I’m about to have a stroke. Should I go to the hospital instead of home? But then my love will never find me._

With zero recollection of the walk to his building or the elevator ride to his floor, he finds himself staring at the number on his own apartment door. How long as he been standing here? He jams the key in the first lock, turns it the wrong way, reverses direction, gets it to work, goes on to the second lock and then the third, and finally the door opens.

 _I’m home,_ he calls out. _Baby, I’m home._

The dark, empty apartment echoes his words right back to him.

All the lightbulbs in the living room have seemingly been swapped out for ones half their wattage. Either that or his vision is dimming; either way, Kíli refuses to flip any more switches. He drops his coat on the living room floor, fumbles down the dark hallway to the bedroom and clambers onto the bed, not even bothering to remove his boots. The snow-white comforter will be mud-sullied by morning, but he doesn’t care. 

As long as this night ends. _Please,_ he thinks. _Let it end._

5.

This morning, Kili didn’t get up. 

He didn’t watch the snow, eat breakfast, pick out the tree, go to the party, meet his love or fall asleep in his arms.

He doesn’t know why; he just doesn’t want to leave this room, this bed.

So he doesn’t.

6.

This morning, Kili didn’t get up. 

He didn’t watch the snow, eat breakfast, pick out the tree, go to the party, meet his love or fall asleep in his arms.

He doesn’t know why; he just doesn’t want to leave this room, this bed.

So he doesn’t.

7.

_Kíli._

Something’s tickling his ear.

_Kíli._

A fingertip. Breath. The brush of lips.

_Kíli, wake up._

He jerks awake. His eyes clear to an astounding sight: the most beautiful man he has ever seen, leaning over him.

 _Hi,_ whispers Fíli.

 _Hi,_ Kíli whispers back.

_Do you know who I am?_

Kíli nods because it’s true. How, he doesn’t know.

_Do you know my name?_

Kíli shakes his head, because this is also true. He isn’t sure it matters.

 _Can I lie down with you?_ the beautiful man entreats.

Kíli cautiously moves over onto the other half of the bed He has no idea why it feels strange to be there, but it seems only polite to give this stranger the warmer portion of the mattress. 

They lie side by side, not touching, suspended in a silence that Fíli intuitively ends just before it becomes unbearable. 

_I was hoping to talk to you,_ he says—casually, as if this conversation was in no way singular _. About the last time we saw each other._

Kíli doesn’t reply.

 _It’s all right if you don’t remember. We can start again._ Fíli shifts around until he’s facing Kíli. _I want you to know one thing, though. Whatever I tell you, and however you take it, I’ll always be with you._

Still no response, but a very slight letting-out of breath.

 _Do you remember when we met?_ probes Fíli, as gently as possible.

For a moment it seems that Kíli’s silence will hold, but when he begins to speak – hoarse and hesitant – his confession serves to dissolve, at least in part, the wall between them.

 _I don’t know,_ he admits _. I don’t think so. When you woke me up, I sort of knew who you were, but… not_ what _you were. Or are, to me. I think… I think we have some kind of history. Maybe even a long one. But I don’t remember any of it._ His head tips to the side; he meets Fíli’s eye. _All I remember is you waking me up._

_That’s all right._

Kíli considers this for a minute, then: _What is happening?_

 _It’s… it’s hard to explain, but I’ll try._ Fíli moves his hand so that his knuckles graze Kíli’s upper arm. It’s just enough contact for the telling to come; more than that might spook him. 

_Maybe you’ve noticed how... how alike every day is,_ he continues in a voice so soft it forces Kíli to lean a little closer so as not to strain his ears. _Every day, exactly the same._

Kíli smiles. _Is that good?_

_If you like it._

Another smile. _I feel happy, if that’s what you mean._

 _I’m glad you do._ Fíli strokes Kíli’s shoulder with the back of his hand. _I think, though, that maybe you’ve felt some differences lately, and maybe they haven’t been so happy. Like yesterday. Do you remember?_

Uneasy, Kíli shakes his head.

 _That’s how it’s supposed to be. Every day a clean slate. Every day happy from beginning to end, just like the day before._ Exactly _like the day before._ Fíli says this more to himself than to Kíli, then regains his purpose. _Because there is no day before, Kili. It’s all the same day._

Silence without a smile, but also curiously without fear.

 _We want it to be good for you, but something went wrong._ Closing his eyes, Fíli presses his cheek against the pillow. His failure to halt the spiral of events fills him with deep disgrace. _I didn’t realize and report it soon enough,_ he confesses. _We’re trying to get to the bottom of it._

 _I don’t get the_ we _part of it._ Kíli sounds very sorry about his inability to grasp this thing he probably ought to understand by now. On a whim he reaches over and spirals one of his nameless friend’s curls around his finger. It seems like something he’s done before, so he has no qualms about doing it now. And since his companion seems to like it, he keeps doing it.

 _Maybe I should tell you what I can about myself,_ Fíli murmurs. The love he feels for Kíli is so powerful at this moment, and the last thing he wishes to do is mar it with more revelation. But it’s best to lay things out straight.

 _When you’re little, you’re only supposed to know so much,_ he resumes. _If you found out all at once what you’re really supposed to learn a bit at a time, the shock of it would sink you. The moment when you realize for the first time that you’re separate from other people is a hard one, because you can’t be eased into it. So when it happens…_ Another backhanded stroke. _They send us._

_They send you? Who are they?_

_I don’t know what to call them. The artists. Designers. Creators. They set us a task, and that’s to get you through it._

_Through what?_

_Life. To keep you living it. And if we succeed…_ Fíli kisses the place he’s just touched. _We get this, with you, forever._

Kíli is quiet for a long time, putting it together, knocking it back down, trying again to make the pieces interlock. Eventually he clears his throat and asks in a very solemn voice, _What are you?_

_I’m yours._

_I know that._ Kíli begins to play with Fíli’s lapel. _I don’t know_ how _I know. But._

 _I belong to you._ A reflective pause, then: _At first you saw me with your own eyes. Then, little by little, I melted into you. That’s the way it works for us. You absorb us, and we seem to disappear. But you felt me. And when you needed it – mostly when you were sad and discouraged – you dreamt of me, and I’d help you wake up happy again._

Kíli stiffens, not with anger or fear, but with something approaching epiphany. _I remember. Feeling you. Some days, there’d be this sense of having a lovely secret. The sky just… it seemed endless. Full of promise._

_Yes. You felt hope, and it would push you to keep going. When you died—_

_I_ died? _I’m dead?_

_Yes._

_How did it happen?_

Fíli presses his lips to Kíli’s shoulder again. _Oh, baby, you’re not allowed to know. It doesn’t matter anyway; I was right there waiting to catch you. And the creators…_

Now it’s Kíli’s turn to wriggle around until they’re face to face. Kíli gathers the neck of Fíli’s shirt in his hand. _Tell me._

 _They crafted all this for you out of your memories, the best parts of your life mixed with the best parts of your dreams. A sort of…_ Fíli pauses, searching for a simile. _You know your favorite ornament, the little snowglobe?_

The idea doesn’t anger Kíli. On the contrary, it perversely delights him to no end. _They put me in a_ snowglobe?

_No! Of course not. But it’s a little scene that surrounds you. Every person has their own, none are exactly alike. You get to live in it forever, at your happiest. You wake up, and it’s the best day. You live through it from morning to night, you go to sleep, and you wake up again, and it’s the best day, always. And I’m there with you._

_This is insane._ _I’ve never heard of anything so crazy._ In a different tone of voice, Kíli’s words would broadcast derision, denial. At present, however, he can barely keep his glee under wraps. It’s all so wonderful, so unbelievable, there is no way it can be the truth.

 _Let me show you,_ whispers Fíli. _Close your eyes._

_Why?_

_The creators are saying they want you to._ I _want you to. Will you do it?_

Kíli covers his eyes with both palms.

_Now look._

Kíli takes his hands away, gasps, and bolts upright.

There’s a tree at the end of the bed. The _exact_ right tree— balsam fir, five feet tall, just right.

 _See? We make it for you,_ says Fíli. _But you’ve told us in your own way what you want. You really like going to the market. It’s about so much more than picking out a tree— you like the bustling crowd, the sounds of talking and music and taxis honking. There’s a food cart that sells mint chocolate chip cannoli; you always buy one and eat it on the spot. And then there’s carrying the tree home and wrestling it upstairs on your own; it makes you feel strong and capable and in charge of our holiday._

Kíli is listening to all this with an expression of wonderment, as if it were a fairytale in a favorite book. But then the glisten in his gaze dims. _You said it went wrong._

Fíli pushes himself up. Without having to think about it, he puts his arms around Kíli. _Something got in. The artists aren’t sure what it was. If a change is made to the scene, even a small one, others changes occur, then more and more. It snowballed. It was awful._ Sea-blue eyes plead for understanding. _I hated to leave you alone on that last evening, but I had to go for help._

_Thank you._

These two words are the last ones Fíli expected to hear. Kíli doesn’t know the price of the gift he’s just given, and he’s about to give an even greater one.

 _I think…_ His brows draw together. _Can I show you something?_

 _Of course you can, baby._ Fíli blushes. He’s called Kíli that ten million times – literally – but every time feels like the first.

The snowy day unfolding outside has cast their kitchen in gloomy blue. Kíli elbows the switch, and then the room’s lit soft gold. He pads over to the cupboard and takes down the blue plate, setting it on the island between him and Fíli.

 _It was my favorite,_ he mumbles.

Fíli doesn’t touch it, only studies it— even walking around the island to view the object from all perspectives, the better to slot it into his frame of understanding. When it fits, he hears the creators breathe in his ear one syllable: _Ahhhh._

 _What do you remember about it?_ he asks Kíli, who touches its rim with one finger as if it were a talisman.

 _My Mum’s sister gave it to her for me before I was born,_ he explains—slowly, as it comes to him. _It was a part of a set. Plate, bowl, cup, and a little round spoon that had, like… rubber on it so that when I started to teethe I wouldn’t bite down and hurt myself. It just kind of popped into my head one morning when I was making my bullseye for breakfast. Like, how bright it would look. Yellow yolk on blue and red plate, you know? And then… I found it sitting in the cupboard. It was real._ He peeks upward at Fíli, worried. _Does it not belong?_

Fíli’s reply is firm. _It does not._

_Did it make all the trouble?_

_It did._

Kíli turns the plate around and around on the counter, making the red cardinal birds fly in their neverending circle one last time. Then (looking as resolved as he does when lugging a Yule tree up four flights of stairs) he nudges it little by little by little toward the edge of the counter. At the very end, he vacillates, looking to Fíli for confirmation that this must be.

Fíli nods.

Kíli pushes.

As the plate shatters, its pieces do something quite extraordinary. They bounce off the floor and vanish in little eddies of iridescent smoke which dissipates in turn, leaving no hint of its source’s existence. Only the lump in Kíli’s throat remains, but two deep breaths easily dissolve it.

 _I love you,_ he tells the beautiful stranger, sounding fragile and determined at the same time.

 _I love you, too,_ comes the tender reply.

_What is your name?_

His companion smiles. _Fíli._

 _Yes,_ Kíli muses. _That’s it. Fíli._

Back in their room, it’s nighttime. The tree’s alight, decorated with all the motley ornaments Kíli and his partner have collected. Candles flicker; the mingled scent of beeswax, mulling spice, and balsam needles fills the room. It’s familiar. It’s heaven. It’s home.

Fíli kisses the palm of Kíli’s hand. _It’s all for you._

Laughing, touching each other, they sink down together on their white cloud and start infinity over.

1.

Could a day be any more ideal? Unimaginable, so far as Kíli’s concerned.

It starts with light snow outside his apartment window— one flake at a time tranquilly spiraling down through the still December air. It’s gentle snow. _Pretty_ snow.

His favorite kind. 


End file.
